


Merge

by mataglap



Series: Binary System [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Light Angst, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Power Play, assholes in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 09:37:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16532045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mataglap/pseuds/mataglap
Summary: Somehow, McCree expects the unplanned holiday in Barcelona to last forever. It doesn't.





	Merge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CorvidFightClub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvidFightClub/gifts).



The three days spent with Hanzo in Barcelona are probably the best of McCree's life. Not that he's had a bad life or anything — he's alive, free and mostly in one piece, which can't be said about a lot of folks he's run with across the years — but he's never had anything like this.

Hanzo enjoys the trip to Sagrada Família. In fact, he enjoys it so much that he looks up Gaudí's other works, and despite his previous grand plans of not leaving the bed they go out again, and again, and they still have enough sex to thoroughly exhaust themselves in between. It all blurs into one long chain of simple pleasures; McCree feels like he hasn't smiled this much in a long time, and he's sure Hanzo definitely has not. He's not used to sleeping with another body next to him, definitely not used to having a heavy arm wrapped loosely around his waist, and yet at the end of the day, exhausted, warm, sated in more ways than one, he falls asleep like a rock.

He doesn't think about the possibility of it ending at all, even though he's fully aware of their impending return to Gibraltar. Somehow he expects this little unplanned holiday to last forever.

* * *

It's the morning of the fourth day and their plane leaves in three hours. Hanzo had wanted to start packing an hour ago, but McCree found the crumpled box with a single remaining condom in the sheets and held it up wordlessly, grinning and giving it a sad, meaningful rattle, and Hanzo gave him an exaggeratedly flat look but pounced anyway.

It was amazing, as every other time before that.

Now McCree's pleasantly sore and still doped up on good chemicals, and he slowly towels himself off after a shower, watching Hanzo arrange clothes in a duffel bag. Hanzo's sporting another fresh bruise in the juncture between his shoulder and neck; he's got an entire collection of those, something McCree is very proud of, and it's obvious and not in any way concealable by any of the clothes he's got. McCree wonders for a moment what comments he might get for that when they return to the Watchpoint. Hanzo's not a particularly secretive person, but McCree realizes he's got no idea how he might feel about revealing their changed status to the team.

"Do you wanna tell the others?" he asks without thinking.

There's a barely perceptible pause before Hanzo resumes folding a t-shirt.

"Tell them what?"

"Y'know." McCree makes a vague gesture encompassing the room, even though Hanzo's back is still turned. "About us."

Hanzo pauses again, for much longer this time, then looks over his shoulder with eyebrows arched. "You want to tell people that we slept together?" he asks incredulously.

They stare at each other for a few seconds — and then the bubble of mindless happiness pops, reality rushing in.

"So this was just a one off, then," McCree says finally, making sure that nothing of what's suddenly happening in his chest appears on his face.

Hanzo drops the folded t-shirt into the bag, turns more fully towards him and smirks. "Well. I'm not averse to the idea of," he makes air quotes with his fingers, " _friends with benefits._ "

McCree chews through it for longer than he should. He's getting angry and weirdly, gut-wrenchingly disappointed, and even more angry because of that, and it's hard to think straight with the quiet, mocking laughter in the back of his head.

"I'll stick to one off, thanks," he says lightly, tossing the towel towards their combined beds and reaching for his jeans. "Was fun though."

He can feel Hanzo's eyes on the back of his neck as he dresses, but he keeps his movements smooth, his body language relaxed, and the feeling of being watched finally subsides.

They finish packing and check out mostly in silence. Only once McCree finds himself reaching out to touch Hanzo's waist in passing, but he catches himself in time, before Hanzo can notice, and he keeps the impulse firmly in check afterwards.

* * *

McCree's got a tried and tested method of dealing with things. Whenever life gets too much, he holes up in a safe place, gets completely shitfaced, gets it all out of his system in one big rush and never thinks of it again. Unfortunately, he can't get drunk and cry or put a fist through something while on a plane; he's stuck in a cramped aisle seat, with a DMZ of an empty seat between him and Hanzo, who stays glued to the window like he's never been on a plane before.

When the flight attendant walks past with the drinks, he asks for a whiskey and gets two, with a bonus of a bright smile which he automatically returns. The tiny bottles don't even take the edge off. He does his best to keep his mind blank, but there's nothing to do, the flight's too short for an entertainment system and he's long run out of reading material, and before he knows it he's thinking of the past two days again.

Of how they stopped at the mosaics in Park Güell and McCree draped an arm around Hanzo's shoulders, unthinking and completely on impulse, and Hanzo didn't object, didn't even say a word, just leaned into McCree's side and hooked a thumb behind the waistband of his shorts. Of how Hanzo suggested trying out a cozy local restaurant instead of ordering ridiculously expensive room service again. Of how they walked leisurely back to the hotel afterwards, talking all the way, and how Hanzo pushed McCree against the wall next to the door when they reached their room, without even turning on the lights, and dropped to his knees, and how it all felt like —

It doesn't matter. That chapter is closed. McCree flexes his jaw, suppresses a sigh and checks the time. At least the flight is short enough that he manages to suppress any further unwelcome thoughts until the plane begins its descent towards Malaga.

From there it's either train or car to get to Gibraltar. McCree picks the car — this way he can focus on driving — and Hanzo blessedly doesn't argue, opting to catch up on work mail in the passenger seat. He's quiet and studiously neutral, but credit where it's due, he does actually try to start a conversation. Twice. The first time about half an hour in, about something he's read in the news, and some time later about a mission report sent by Tracer. McCree doesn't feel like talking; he's polite but monosyllabic, and Hanzo quickly gives up trying to make conversation.

The expressway cuts through a brown-and-green landscape that gets repetitive after a while, pleasant weather notwithstanding. McCree decides he needs a distraction, both from that and the tense silence, and turns on the radio. It's playing the latest summer hit, the same they've heard about a hundred times during their stay in Barcelona, and twice during the dinner at the restaurant alone. He watched Hanzo squint suspiciously at arròs negre to this exact song, laughed at his apprehension and prodded him to try it, grinned at the delighted surprise on Hanzo's face when he finally did.

The sudden stab of regret is so visceral that he reaches out to change the station faster than intended. In his peripheral vision Hanzo twitches at the sudden movement, but he doesn't comment, and neither does he protest at McCree scrolling through stations until he finds one noisy enough to drown out unbidden thoughts.

* * *

When the night comes, McCree realizes that three days were enough to get used to not sleeping alone. He misses the sex, too, of course he does — he's never been with someone like Hanzo, someone both pushy _and_ wanting to be pushed, and it was incredible, better than anything he'd had before — but what really keeps him awake is the absence of the warm and snarky presence in his bed, of the way Hanzo aggressively seeks closeness in the night. He sets his jaw, refuses to be maudlin about it, downs a double bourbon on an empty stomach and finally falls asleep.

In the morning, he can't help but remember how it felt to wake up with Hanzo plastered to his back, and that leads to a vivid memory of the first morning after sleeping together, of waking up to a mouth trailing kisses across his shoulders and fingers spread low on his stomach, playing with the treasure trail. He makes a half-hearted attempt at jerking off, but it feels so unsatisfying that he quickly gives up.

And then, because Lady Luck's apparently bent on collecting the debt he's racked up over the years, he immediately runs into Hanzo in the kitchen.

It's weird. Not even because they're suddenly just teammates again. It's not the first time McCree's slept with someone he worked with, and he knows how it's supposed to go, but their game is finished, there's no teasing, no challenges, no smug smirks, there's just a neutral nod in passing, after which Hanzo sets to brewing his tea. McCree doesn't know what to do with that. He's so thrown off that it takes him a while to notice that Hanzo's wearing a thin blue turtleneck which does a great job of covering the bruises, and looking away from _that_ and unclenching his jaw is harder than it should be.

 _Stop freaking out_ , he tells himself and focuses on making coffee. He manages to cobble together something resembling breakfast without any further glances at Hanzo, but then he has to walk right past him, and not looking at all would be too conspicuous, and that's when he discovers he doesn't know how to look at Hanzo without making it weird anymore.

Genji gives him a strange look on the way out, gaze shifting between him and Hanzo slowly eating his breakfast in a corner. McCree ignores him and goes to find something to do. It's either that or drinking at nine in the morning.

The next day, after the weekly team training, they don't tease each other in the showers like they used to. McCree can't resist glancing at Hanzo this time, partially out of habit and partially out of pitiful hope that he'll catch him checking out his ass, but Hanzo doesn't even look in his direction, focused on rummaging in his locker. McCree zeroes in on the chain of yellowing bruises down the side of his neck, realizes he's staring, looks away and decides it's time to get over it.

* * *

The sunsets over Gibraltar are always beautiful. McCree stands at the railing on the roof of the observatory, smokes and squints at the bright blaze of colors above the water. It's warm outside and he's got a bottle of bourbon and a blanket already stashed in a service cabinet, all he's waiting for is nightfall, so he can stargaze while getting hammered and avoid people asking uncomfortable questions. He watches the sun set and lets himself remember everything for one last time, lets himself miss it, until the tightness in his chest becomes a persistent ache, and he's about to pull the bottle out and start early when he hears the noise.

Someone's behind him, at the top of the staircase. Someone whose quiet footsteps he's definitely just heard, but who's not moving now, which means they're just standing there like a creep, which means it has to be Hanzo. McCree holds his breath, teeth clenched on the cigar, and waits, torn between wanting Hanzo to go away and desperately hoping he'll come closer, and only realizes he's been squeezing the railing a bit too hard when the metal starts giving under his fingers.

Hanzo's still not moving. McCree's brain goes into overdrive trying to come up with possible explanations. It's unlike Hanzo to just stand there, inaction is definitely not his thing —

He hears the footsteps again and stiffens despite himself, and then stiffens even further when he feels the touch.

For a split second he's convinced it's not Hanzo after all. There are arms slowly looping around his waist and there's about zero chance Hanzo'd do that; Lena could maybe do it as a joke, but it feels too careful and weirdly intimate to be a prank — but then he glances down and sees the tattoo, right before the arms tighten and Hanzo rests his forehead against the back of his neck.

It can only be described as a hug. A pretty tight hug, too. But Hanzo is who he is, and it was only about sex, and it's over anyway, so McCree looks out to the sea and waits for things to start making sense, even as his body tries to relax into the contact he's missed so fucking much.

"I was wrong," Hanzo finally mumbles into his neck, so quietly he can barely hear it.

McCree shivers at the warm gust of air across his skin, forces himself to breathe evenly and waits.

Hanzo's chest rises and falls against his back: a deep inhale, or maybe a sigh. "I misjudged the situation," he continues, slightly louder, in a determined tone that sounds a lot more like him. "I didn't realize —"

He breaks off, and McCree fails to respond again, but this time it's because of a weird mixture of anger and hope squeezing his throat tight. Hanzo makes a strange sound, of impatience or maybe frustration, and falls unhelpfully silent.

"You gotta make that clearer, partner," McCree finally manages through clenched teeth.

Hanzo takes a deep breath just to make that frustrated sound again, this time complete with a knock of his forehead against the back of McCree's neck, and he still doesn't say anything useful.

The bitterness McCree didn't even know was there spills over, sudden and ugly. "Let me guess. Missing the sex?" he sneers, regretting it instantly, because what the hell — this could be his second chance and he's about to throw it away —

Hanzo huffs. "That too," he admits easily, finally back to his normal asshole self. Somehow that makes the knot in McCree's chest loosen slightly. "But not just that."

"What else, then?" McCree prompts, as patiently as he can.

Hanzo makes a vaguely displeased noise and tightens the loosened embrace. "You," he mutters.

"Me?" McCree repeats dumbly.

"Yes, you." Now Hanzo sounds comically disgruntled, and McCree would probably laugh if his throat wasn't all closed up. "Like I said: I was wrong. If you were to ask that question again, my answer would be different. So if the option is still on the table, I'd like to continue — this. Whatever it is. If you want."

He sounds anything but contrite, really, and a considerable part of McCree wants to tell him to fuck off and go get drunk and sulk as planned, but in the lengthening silence he feels a tremor running through the chest pressed against his back — Hanzo is holding his breath waiting for the answer — and that does it: McCree shakes his head, mouths a curse, roughly pries Hanzo's arms off his waist, turns and glimpses Hanzo's stricken expression for a split second before pulling him into a proper hug.

Hanzo remains stiff as a board for a long moment before relaxing and laughing quietly into his shoulder.

There are several things McCree wants to say, about half of them insults, but there's a good chance his voice will come out even shakier than Hanzo's laugh, so he does the next best thing and kisses him. Hanzo responds immediately and with unchecked enthusiasm, and suddenly it's like the last two days never happened, like they're in Barcelona again, kissing in a dark side alley on the way back to the hotel because it's too far away to wait.

"You owe me for the last two days, asshole," he mutters against Hanzo's mouth a while later, when they split briefly to catch a breath. Hanzo hums in agreement and tangles both hands in his hair, pushing closer. McCree's missed this, missed him so goddamn much, he can't help but run his hands all over Hanzo's body, refamiliarizing himself with its shape, until he finally remembers they're in public and it's not even dark yet. "And I hate your fucking turtleneck," he adds, forcing himself to break away. "Get it off. Somewhere with a bed."

Hanzo takes a step back and reaches for the hem of the offending garment with a smirk. "I can do it right here. And I can repay what I owe you right here, as well."

The mental image is so hot McCree nearly takes him up on it. They're alone on the roof and nobody's around, the dome of the telescope is just a few feet away, and he could lean against it, pull Hanzo in — but nobody at the Watchpoint deserves the mental scarring if they happen to be in a mood for watching the sunset, and besides, evening dew is about to set in.

"Nope. You're not getting off that easy," he replies, catching Hanzo's hands before he can take the shirt off; he's not sure his resolve would hold if he did. "My room or yours?"

"Mine." Hanzo pulls his hands out of McCree's grip and smacks him lightly in the chest, grinning. "I'm sure yours is a sty. _And_ ," he adds before McCree can react to the slander, "I don't mind _getting off hard_ either."

McCree groans, covering his face with a palm. "Good Lord. Y'know what, I'm just gonna stay here and get drunk instead," he says, but as Hanzo starts walking backwards in the direction of the stairs, laughing at his own terrible pun, or maybe his expression, or both, he knows deep down that nothing on earth could stop him from following.

* * *

McCree doesn't even get a chance to have a look around Hanzo's room to see if it's any cleaner than his own. The moment he gets his shoes off Hanzo starts pulling at his shirt, deftly maneuvering around the elbow of the prosthesis, and as soon as it's gone he finds himself unceremoniously pushed towards the bed. It's unmade; he's tempted to make a remark about it, but Hanzo prevents it very effectively by means of hungry kisses, and by the time the backs of his knees hit the mattress he feels magnanimous enough to let it slide.

Hanzo keeps pushing even after he's sat down, so he lies down properly, and Hanzo immediately crawls over him, straddles his hips and leans in, kissing him like he's missed it just as much as McCree did. McCree reaches out to touch, a little lightheaded already, and is painfully disappointed when his hands find that goddamned turtleneck instead of skin.

"Get this thing off," he demands between kisses, pushing lightly at Hanzo's chest.

Hanzo acknowledges the request with a vague hum and proceeds to ignore it, chasing his mouth instead. He's tangled both hands in McCree's hair again, and combined with the little circular motions of his hips it's incredibly distracting; McCree would be more than okay with it, but the turtleneck not only blocks his access to Hanzo's skin, it offends him personally, and he absolutely needs it gone. He tries tugging at the hem, but Hanzo refuses to budge. McCree growls in frustration, wraps one hand around his waist, hooks the other behind his knee and flips them.

"I asked nicely first," he explains, making himself comfortable astride Hanzo's hips and finally rucking the stupid shirt up to his armpits. "Not my fault you ain't listenin'."

Hanzo just looks up at him and smirks, heavy-lidded and entirely uncooperative, and goes for the buckle of his belt.

McCree shivers when the backs of Hanzo's fingers brush against his stomach. "Work with me here, dammit," he mutters, forcibly pulling Hanzo's hands away from his torso and pushing them above his head.

Hanzo stiffens. McCree can feel him tensing between his thighs, sees the way his eyes widen and his smile falters, hears the sharp inhale. It really can't be any more obvious.

"You like that, huh," he says dazedly, letting go of Hanzo's hands to finally pull the turtleneck over his head. He regrets the question immediately, because Hanzo is definitely going to —

"Obviously," Hanzo says as soon as his head is free, corners of his mouth lifting into a smirk again.

— sass him. _Goddammit_. "Dick," he says fondly, capturing Hanzo's hands before they can drop back to where they were. Hanzo actually puts a token effort into resisting this time, still with that contrary smirk, but he's not trying very hard and McCree's _real_ motivated now, and once he's got Hanzo's wrists securely pinned above his head with the left hand — it's the absolute best possible use for a powered prosthesis — Hanzo exhales shakily and slackens, closing his eyes.

McCree has no illusions about their comparative skill in close quarters. Hanzo could probably kill him with his bare hands if he tried. And yet all that coiled power lies under his hands, willingly subdued, absurdly perfect and hotter than the sun. Gorgeous.

"You say that a lot," Hanzo murmurs, because McCree apparently just said it out loud, and apart from being gorgeous Hanzo is also an asshole.

McCree chuckles and presses a thumb against that smirk to shut him up, kind of surprised when he doesn't get bitten. He runs his fingers down Hanzo's jaw and neck, traces the outline of the tattoo and palms his pectoral, rubs teasing circles around a nipple until he hears a ragged breath, then slowly slides his hand down, making sure to explore every ridge of muscle until he gets to the waistband of his pants, and Hanzo squeezes his eyes shut and groans quietly when McCree cups him through the fabric.

The way his muscles flex when McCree undoes his pants and tugs them out of the way is worthy of art.

McCree starts jerking him off slowly, with long leisurely strokes, keeping his wrists pinned and watching his face. The smirk disappears quickly. Hanzo bites his lip, chews on it for a while, releases it, flexes his hands in the unyielding metal grip and finally opens his eyes, so dark they're almost black and softened with pleasure. "Stop staring and kiss me," he grumbles breathily, like he's in any position to be making demands.

It's a good idea though, so McCree leans in and does just that, careful not to crush Hanzo's wrists. It's not a comfortable position, but absolutely worth the effort; the kiss is slow, intense and hot, hypnotizing like the rhythm of his hand on Hanzo's cock, and he keeps it up until Hanzo starts shifting restlessly, not so much kissing anymore as panting into his mouth.

"More," Hanzo rasps, attempting to thrust up into his hand. McCree's got half a mind to make him beg again, but there's no way he can drag it out long enough. His jeans are a torture already and his muscles are trembling from the effort, and he _wants_ to watch Hanzo come anyway. He's waited for it long enough. He switches to fast, tight strokes and is rewarded immediately with a moan, an incredibly soft, vulnerable sound he's never heard from Hanzo before, and he immediately wants to hear more, focuses on giving Hanzo exactly what he needs until he's taut as a string, breathing shallow and fast, teetering on the edge.

"Look at me," McCree says breathlessly. "Come on, sweetheart, let me see your pretty eyes."

Hanzo opens his eyes and looks up at him, and whatever he sees, it's enough: his eyebrows draw down and he squeezes his eyes shut again, gasping and shuddering as he comes.

McCree lets go of his wrists when the shaking subsides and finally gets himself out of the confines of his jeans, groaning with relief. Hanzo reaches out blindly to pull him closer; even when he's uncoordinated he's really fucking strong, and McCree's overworked muscles give out easily. He half-collapses onto Hanzo, supporting himself with a forearm in the last second, but his cock still slides across Hanzo's abs, through his come, and it feels so amazing that any chances of making this last are immediately reduced to zero. He ends up hiding his face against Hanzo's neck, jerking off desperately against his stomach, and when Hanzo reaches down to help and tightens the other hand in his hair, he comes near instantly, stifling a moan against the fading bruises on Hanzo's skin.

He comes down slowly, focused on Hanzo's pulse still racing under his lips. It starts slowing down at about the same moment the position he's in becomes real uncomfortable; he takes a last deep breath of Hanzo's scent, lifts himself up on shaky arms and reaches for the blue turtleneck.

"You're doing that on purpose," Hanzo says accusingly, watching McCree meticulously wipe both their stomachs clean.

"Yup," McCree admits cheerfully, tossing the thoroughly soiled shirt away; he did, he left it in easy reach for this exact purpose. 

"And you call _me_ a dick."

It sounds so fond that McCree has to turn his face away to hide a stupid grin. "Reckon we both are," he says, pushing himself off Hanzo, collapsing onto the bed next to him and doing his pants back up with still half-numb fingers.

Hanzo doesn't argue. He's uncharacteristically quiet, actually; normally he'd already be in or on his way to the shower, possibly trying to drag McCree along. McCree finally pushes himself up on an elbow to look. Hanzo didn't bother to tuck himself back in, he's lying in the same utterly debauched position except for the forearm covering his eyes, and McCree would appreciate the amazing picture he paints if it wasn't for the sudden pang of worry.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

Hanzo sighs. "Yes," he says, face still half-hidden under his arm. "I'm sorry."

It's the first time McCree's ever heard him apologize for anything.

"And… thank you," Hanzo adds stiltedly, before McCree even manages to process the surprise. "For the second chance."

Hanzo thanking someone is a less shocking, but still damn rare occurrence. McCree realizes he's got absolutely no idea what to say, so he scoots closer, pushes Hanzo's arm off his face and kisses him instead; it turns out soft and sweet, unexpectedly intimate, and Hanzo responds equally softly, without an ounce of his usual pushiness.

McCree finds himself in a desperate need to defuse the sudden, strange feeling of vulnerability.

"Always wondered what it would take to make you less of an asshole," he murmurs, playing with loose strands of Hanzo's mussed hair. "Seems I just gotta fuck you. Mystery solved."

It works; Hanzo snorts quietly and his mouth stretches in a familiar smirk. "Clearly it doesn't work on you."

The vulnerable feeling comes back as they look at each other, Hanzo smiling faintly up at him — but it's not quite as choking anymore, and McCree decides he might get used to it eventually.

"So," he starts. His stomach unexpectedly twists in nervous anticipation and he nearly backs off, but it's too late, Hanzo is looking at him expectantly and, well, they have to talk about it sooner or later. "Wanna tell the others?"

He's pretty proud of the way his voice doesn't waver, and he's reasonably sure none of the trepidation shows on his face either.

Hanzo takes a breath as if to say something — then lets it out, looking down. "I can't discuss serious matters like this," he says.

McCree snorts despite himself and backs off, pushing himself up to a mostly sitting position. Hanzo buttons up his pants, critically examines his stomach, then finally sits up and leans against the pillows next to him. He's stalling; McCree has just enough time to think _don't do this to me, not again_ , but before his stomach really sinks, Hanzo takes his hand and threads their fingers together.

"I don't think official announcements will be necessary," he says. "If they have eyes, they'll figure it out by themselves. I don't plan to hide anything."

"Works for me," McCree breathes, giddy with relief.

"I feel that I should warn you, though." Hanzo pauses, squeezes his hand and looks at him with an expression somewhere between apologetic and wry. "You may regret this very quickly."

"Pretty sure we're equally bad at this. We'll see who's the one to regret it first."

Hanzo's eyebrows shoot up. "Did you just _challenge me_ to make you regret this relationship?"

Something warm and hopeful unfurls in McCree's chest at that word; he fails just as badly at pushing it down as at stopping the stupid happy grin. "Do your worst," he says, draping an arm around Hanzo's shoulders and pulling him closer — or attempting to. He's so completely surprised he doesn't even have time to _think_ about reacting before he's yanked down the bed and sat on, Hanzo resting exactly enough of his considerable mass on his chest to make it hard to breathe.

"Challenge accepted," Hanzo says with a wicked glint in his eye. "Starting now."

* * *

They don't need to make any announcements: the state of Hanzo's neck alone is enough for half the team to catch on and engage in some good-natured ribbing. Lena pulls McCree aside to ask what the hell he ravaged Hanzo for, Reinhardt gives him a "well done!" accompanied by a mortifyingly unsubtle wink, and Genji, when he first runs into Hanzo without the turtleneck, turns on his heel with a loud 'nope' and leaves the room. 

The new game is even more fun than the old, because now the possibilities are _endless_. McCree slumps in his seat while they're on a team outing in a pub and runs his fingers along the inner seam of Hanzo's pants, rubs little circles on the inside of his thigh, and listens gleefully to his attempts to keep up with the conversation. Hanzo retaliates the next day by pulling him into an unused room five minutes before a meeting, giving him exactly enough of a handjob to leave him hard and aching, and walking out; McCree doesn't fully appreciate the deviousness of that maneuver until he hobbles into the room and sits down, and realizes that Hanzo used a special, warming lube that only just started to kick in.

It's a good thing that the meeting isn't important, because he doesn't register a word of what's being said.

Their shooting competition is as vicious as ever. Hanzo threatens to stab him if he even thinks of pulling off a Robin Hood-style distraction, but joke's on him, because McCree decides it's worth the risk anyway. He doesn't get stabbed, but he does get disarmed, taken down in record time and mercilessly mocked; soon after that he has to swallow his pride and ask Genji to train with him, because Hanzo starts using his superior CQC skills on him way too often, gloating every time.

At some point Genji makes a hilarious attempt at shovel talk. McCree cuts it short with a flat look and a "go away or I'll tell you what your brother's like in bed", and laughs for five minutes after Genji leaves because of that expression of utter mortified betrayal. Hanzo nearly cries laughing when McCree recaps the story in bed that night; after he calms down, he demands to know what McCree thinks he's like in bed. McCree tells him, grinning. It ends exactly as expected.

It doesn't take him long to realize he's head over heels in love. He thinks Hanzo might be, too. He doesn't talk about it, because Hanzo doesn't either, and despite how ridiculously happy he is, there's a part of him that's still afraid. In the rare tender moments, usually at night, when they lie quietly wrapped around each other, he thinks about saying it sometimes, but that small part of him is absolutely terrified Hanzo will look at him with cold incomprehension and claim they've been _friends with benefits_ all this time, and it doesn't bear thinking about.

* * *

As far as McCree is concerned, Hanzo has no fear. It has its good and bad sides; they've had a few shouting matches about Hanzo's complete disregard for his safety and now he at least puts _some_ effort into not getting killed, but his self-preservation instinct still needs a lot of work. It's all the more shocking to see him scared shitless of a parachute jump.

Infiltrating a heavily guarded private island by sea isn't really an option. They have to go with air insertion for this one, but it's not even a HALO jump, the stealth craft Winston somehow borrowed makes it possible to fly over at a relatively low altitude. There's no real reason to be afraid. And yet Hanzo's white as a sheet and breathing fast enough for it to be noticeable, and he's doing his best to appear unaffected but McCree's heard his voice in pretty much all possible circumstances now, and he hasn't heard it tremble like this yet.

At least they have their own comm channel; Hanzo would never forgive him if he mentioned it with Tracer listening. McCree double-checks he's transmitting on the correct channel before he speaks up.

"Should've said you're afraid of parachuting."

Hanzo glares at him sharply, of course. "I'm not _afraid_. I simply haven't done it yet."

It's obvious bullshit, and a perfect opportunity for McCree to gain a solid advantage, but Hanzo's _genuinely_ scared, and it makes McCree's heart twist. He weighs his options. The jump window is coming fast, there's no time to talk Hanzo through it, not even enough time for a comfort hug, and Hanzo would take it for pity and reject it anyway. They can't afford a second approach, and scared jumper is a jumper who makes mistakes, and McCree is _not_ losing Hanzo to a fucking trivial jump —

— and then he turns his head so that Hanzo can't see his grin, because the idea he just came up with is brilliant, if he does say so himself.

"Ready, boys?" By the sound of her voice, Tracer's grinning too. "Jump in fifteen!"

"Copy. I'm going first, Hanzo after me." McCree switches back to the private channel. "Ready?"

"Yes," Hanzo says weakly.

McCree hits the lock and the door opens, filling the relatively silent compartment with the roar of engines and the howl of air, audible even through the active noise blocking of their earphones. The island looks ridiculously tiny in the vast blue below. It's equal parts scary and exhilarating: a perfect background for what he's about to do.

"Oh, and by the by," McCree says, turning to face Hanzo, whose eyes widen at the sight of his manic grin. "I love you. See ya on the ground!"

He chickens out of watching Hanzo's reaction, slides the goggles down and pushes himself out, into freefall; even if Hanzo doesn't share the sentiment, it should be enough of a distraction to get him to jump. Whatever happens after, at least it'll happen when they're safe on the ground.

He checks as soon as he's in safe distance from the aircraft, and yes, Hanzo's there, right behind him, and, ever the overachiever, he's actually correctly controlling his speed, trying to catch up with McCree. McCree imagines Hanzo attempting to punch him in freefall and barely tamps down a slightly hysterical giggle; Hanzo hasn't said anything yet and as foreboding as that is, he doesn't want to be the one to break the silence.

And the silence lengthens, until exhilaration starts evaporating and cold fear starts creeping in —

"I forgot to turn the throat mic on," Hanzo says, sounding incredibly annoyed, and McCree can't contain it anymore: he starts laughing. "I suppose you thought that was very clever?"

"It was genius," McCree manages through the chuckles. "And I meant it," he adds when Hanzo doesn't reply. "Still mean it."

Hanzo's on about the same altitude now, but too far away to see his expression, especially with the goggles covering half his face. McCree checks the time: still thirty seconds to deployment.

"I love you too," Hanzo finally says, sounding so _incredibly_ awkward it carries even over the throat mic — McCree can _hear_ the wince — and it's so ridiculously endearing, on top of the wild somersaults his heart's already making, he doesn't know what to do with himself for a second.

"Try and one-up that one," he says finally. His face is starting to hurt.

A long pause. Fifteen seconds to deployment.

"I'm pregnant," Hanzo deadpans.

McCree has never deployed a parachute while howling with laughter. There's a first time for everything.


End file.
